


Incarnate

by isasolan



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (2012), The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Romance, What Was I Thinking?, but slightly AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 05:50:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isasolan/pseuds/isasolan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She looks into his eyes, silver orbs where the Flame Imperishable still shines."<br/>Canon is respected. (update: very minor grammar edits)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incarnate

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Воплощенный](https://archiveofourown.org/works/721783) by [Teado](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teado/pseuds/Teado)



> I'm so sorry. Watched the Hobbit and could not resist. Purists should never fangirl.  
> This story has been translated into [Russian.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/721783)  
> Nerwen/Artanis=Galadriel, Olórin=Gandalf  
> Aikanáro=Aegnor, Findaráto=Finrod, Arafinwë=Finarfin

i.  
She is a child the first time they meet, a golden-haired elfling playing with Aikanáro in the gardens of Finwë’s castle.

Olórin is dressed like a child, too, in a youthful-looking body mirroring one of the Eldar. He does this often, and delights in the games of elflings, as if he were one himself. He looks barely older than Findaráto, her eldest brother. The Maia’s hair is silver, like her mother’s.

“Who might you be?” he asks, his eyes merry.

“I am Nerwen!” she says proudly, and when Aikanáro pulls on her braid she gives a shriek. She jumps on her brother’s back and bites his shoulder. The boy screams.

“No biting,” Arafinwë says, and pulls her in his arms.

She looks at the Maia, head tilted, and grins at him. He laughs.

“Your daughter is beautiful, Arafinwë,” Olórin says, fondly. “I hear the Music in her.”

 

ii.  
She is fully grown when they meet again.

She comes to Nienna’s halls to receive instruction. She can read into people’s minds, and more worryingly, into people’s hearts. She does not want to be arrogant like her uncle. Never. Only the Valië can teach her to be compassionate, and fair.

“Welcome, Nerwen,” Olórin says.

He startles her, appearing like that in the hallway in front of her. Out of nowhere. His hair is still silver, but he has not aged. His appearance is just as youthful, and now looks younger than her younger cousins. She looks into his eyes, silver orbs where the Flame Imperishable still shines.

“My name is Artanis,” she says proudly and holds her head high.

“And do you still bite?” he jokes, and she loses her solemn stance to break into an unbecoming giggle.

Nay, she no longer bites. She has words now, and they are more effective against her pesky brother than her teeth ever were.

“Would you like to find out?” she jokes back and bares her teeth slightly. She then grows serious. Is it disrespectful to speak to a Maia like this?

But Olórin laughs harder. “And find out I shall, my dear lady,” he says, and takes her hand to lead her into Nienna’s halls.

 

 

iii.  
Olórin is a Maia, but he has much to learn too.

They are students together, and sit in the gardens by the mingling light of the Trees. He makes her laugh. She sings for him.

 

 

iv.  
His appearance changes one day. When she meets him in gardens, he is no longer the young elfling she is so used to.

He looks grown now. An adult Elf. Older than her. The silver hair is arranged in careful braids. But his features...! Gone is the merry grin she so loved. It has been replaced by a smirk, just as bright, but strangely disquieting. She is mortified to find herself thinking he looks handsome, and shields her mind praying that he did not hear that thought.

“Why have you changed?” she asks, her voice a bare whisper. She feels childish for having asked.

“It seemed more appropriate,” he says and steps closer. Her heart is racing and her mouth is dry.

“For what?”

“For this,” he says and takes her hand in his.

 

v.  
Surely it is unlawful.

It must be.

The Ainur and the Eldar were not meant to feel like this.

But he is nearly like an Elf, tangible, and when her mouth runs on his neck he tastes nothing like she thought a Maia would. But he also does not taste like an Elf. She sinks her teeth into what seems to be flesh, lightly, and he bats her away with a laugh.

“What do I taste like?” he jokes, and rolls on top of her.

His silver hair falls on her face, and his robes are tangled with hers. This is what love must be like, when you find it. But what then? Marry? Can they be joined? Would she bear him Maiar children?

“You taste of a sweetness I will never have,” she says, darkly.

He frowns. “I would become incarnate for you, if you asked.”

What does this mean? She does not understand. She sits up, and rids herself of his weight. She thinks of her father, and how pale he would grow if he knew. She thinks of her brother, and how he would try to convince her it is an abomination.

“I love you,” he says. “I will marry you, if that is your wish.”

She stares at him, and wants to say yes, but the Flame in his eyes forbids her to speak.

“I do not need an answer now,” he says when she stays silent. “I will always be here. And I will always wait.”

 

vi.  
Finwë the King is slain, and the Silmarils are lost.

Her uncle’s words kindle her heart like no other visions ever have. Lands to explore. A realm to rule. She will join him. They all will.

Olórin comes to Arafinwë’s house, like he has not done since she was a child. Everyone is readying for the March. No one notices the Maia’s anxious knocks on the gates, no one save Artanis.

“You cannot leave,” he says. “Much ill will come of this folly.”

“I want to go,” she says, hoarsely. She refuses to meet his eyes.

“My offer still stands, Nerwen. I will love no other, and would marry you. But I will not follow you against the Valar’s counsel.”

“Then we must say goodbye."

Curse the tears she cannot stop. She feels him trying to read her mind, but she rejects the contact. Not now. But his will is stronger. She gasps. He has never used his power against her. She thinks of Melkor, and of her uncle’s accusations, and recoils in horror from him.

“Do not leave me,” he asks, desperate, and his mind is bending hers so suffocatingly that she falls to her knees.

“What is the matter here?” Aikanáro steps out, and breaks the spell. In an instant he is by her side, holding her in his arms and helping her rise. Olórin steps back. She is weak, and disoriented, but she still hears her brother shouting at him to begone.

 

 

vii.  
In Doriath, she meets Melian, and cries when she understands what she refused.

 

 

 

viii.  
Celeborn is also silver haired.

 

 

 

ix.  
She goes near the Maiar ranks after the War of Wrath, looking for him.

He did not come.

 

 

 

x.  
He comes at last, in the Third Age of the Sun.

She does not recognise him at first.

He is _old_. Older than any Man could ever become. His hair is not silver, but grey, and a long, unkempt beard falls down to his chest. She looks into his eyes, and sees the Flame, shivering when she understands he is no Man, but one of the Ainur. Olórin.

“Why have you come?” she asks in a strangled voice. She is happy. She has a husband, a realm, and a child.

His eyes are cold. “I was sent by Manwë to aid the Peoples of Middle Earth.”

“So Sauron also said.”

“I am not Sauron,” he says harshly, and turns away from her.

“Why this appearance?” she asks, like she did centuries before, but there is a hint of disgust in her voice that she cannot disguise.

“I thought it would be easier for you,” he says after a long silence, “if I looked nothing like I used to. But perhaps I presumed too much. Fear not, I will not meddle in your affairs. I was sent with a specific purpose.”

But it is not easier. Her fëa is stirring with his presence, not with his body.

“I just wanted to see you again. The Music still sings in you,” he says, and in his old man body it sounds even more dismaying.

“Olórin. I regret... I never wanted... I didn’t know,” she says, incoherently, and the last time she could not find her words, she must have been two years old, under the Trees.

“I regret I did not follow you,” he says, and walks away leaning on his staff, like an infirm would.

 

 

xi.  
She bends over as if pained when she feels his mind again.

 _Narya, Narya_ , her mind screams. She gasps for air, but finds none. Her fingers work frantically to remove Nenya as if it burned. The ring falls on the floor, and rolls under a table. Lórien’s defenses waver, and she scolds herself for her thoughtlessness. She places the ring back on her finger cautiously.

There he is again.

His mind speaks to hers like no other.

 _Olórin?_ she asks, disoriented. _Narya_ , Nenya answers. And then, after an unbearably long pause, she hears him. _I apologise if I startled you. Círdan gave me his ring_ , he says slowly, his voice echoing down the invisible threads that link the Rings of Power.

And then, silence.

 

 

 

xii.  
 _It is good to feel you again_ , she sends after a few years, when she has grown accustomed to his presence.

He does not answer, but she can feel him smile.

 

 

 

xiii.  
They meet often, when the White Council begins. He makes her laugh, like he did when they were young. One day she finds she no longer sees the old body he has chosen for himself. She only sees his spirit as it was in the Elder Days, crowned by the fire of Narya.

Perhaps this is how loving a Maia is supposed to be, after all. A distant echo of what could have been.

 

 

 

xiv.  
She weeps for him when she learns of his fall.

But then he is returned to her, unexpectedly. He appears in her lands after the Fellowship has left, naked and confused. She clothes him, nurses him back to sanity, and thanks the Valar, if they care to hear, that he appeared in her lands and not in the Enemy’s.

His eyes refocus at last, and lock with hers.

“Nerwen,” he says with a weary smile. No one has called her that in ages.

“Aye, ‘tis Nerwen. Your Nerwen,” she answers, so relieved that she weeps again as she sinks into his arms.

How many more tests must she endure? Refusing the One Ring left her broken and diminished. Will she not fall into this temptation, laying thus in her first love’s embrace? His grip on her tightens, as if hearing her thoughts. Of course he hears. Her mind is open, and the Rings are linked.

“Alas, my fair one, our time together is long gone,” he says, his voice heavy with unspeakable sadness, the sadness that comes from having witnessed the Beginning and glimpsed the End.

“Must it be?” she asks, irrationally. Did her grandfather not love two wives?

She lifts her head to look at Olórin. His hair is white now, and his beard shaped elegantly. His spirit is no longer merry as it was. He is grieved and worried, and no less because of her.

“It must,” he says, and moves away when she tries to find his lips.

 

 

xv.  
Her husband refuses to sail with her.

She would be grieved, were she not so weary. They spent three ages of the Sun together. They made a child together. She did love him. But she has not the strength to listen to his empty promises of joining her when the time comes.

But Olórin is there, with the Halflings. She sits by them on the boat, listening to his light-hearted stories. The Rings no longer work, but he does not refuse the caress of her mind. He is young once more, it seems. She laughs at his stories, like she did not think it was possible to laugh again.

 

 

 

xvi.  
Celeborn will never come, Mandos says. His fëa refused the summons. He is lost for ever. The Vala is sorry.

She cannot even weep. She sits in the gardens of Írmo, staring at nothing.

 

 

xvii.  
“Nerwen,” he says.

When she looks up, Olórin is there. Not Mithrandir, not Gandalf the White. The Elf he once appeared to be. The one she loved, so long ago. Silver and merry, unchanged.

“Oh,” is all she manages to say, and he must be the only being to succeed in making her speechless twice.

“I said I would wait,” he says, and kneels by her.

She wraps herself around him, and gasps for air, breathing in his scent. How she has missed him. How did she ever survive? She sinks her teeth into his shoulder, gently, holding her breath and praying to feel flesh.

She does, this time.

“Olórin,” she says in wonder and looks into his eyes. The Flame is gone, but the fire remains. He is incarnate, an Elf. Like her. “What have you done?”

“What I should have done long ago,” he answers with a grin, and presses his lips to hers in a loving kiss.


End file.
